something beautiful about a dancer’s foot

Knarled. Older than time. Carrying youth and grace. Broken. Bruised. Bloody. Beautiful.

I know a little bit about the pain held in the feet. Walking on bunions, blisters and ripped open toes and ankles to maintain femme status. The more painful the costume, the higher the femme. No complaints.

I put on my work sneakers this morning and my feet said "really corrie? yesterday was the last day." I need a new pair of shoes. Wearing my chucks instead... reminds me of being 13.

I love my feet. I have fallen arches and cantankerous ingrown toenails. It's genetic. When I make a footprint you can see the entire sole of my foot. These peds with chipped nailpolish connect me to the women in my family. Connect me to all women. Make me a woman.

After work I will go get myself a pedicure in honor of the dancing pairs of feet I am watching this month. Also looking forward to drinking with a femme tonight and not driving home to the east bay.

come together over me

the past 2 months feel like two years. or that I've grown up twice my age, but in a good way. I drive a gas effecient honda civic (baby sister's hand me down), I have a job that pays me what I deserve for the amazing talents I give to my industry, I have my own home that I am decorating exactly the way I want, I quit smoking with ease and effeciency, I take two of the f'ing cutest dogs on walks around echo park and they listen to my commands, I remember to take my meds and eat, I have good self esteem and am looking forward to the future.

I remember that overwhelming and recent feeling of wanting to slam my car into a tree and make it all go away. I remember the moment when I decided to do it at 40 miles an hour instead of 80. The world of difference velocity makes. How glad I am that I chose what I did. How glad I am that being BPS means Attempting and not Actualizing. The scars on my chest fade fast. I touch them to remember. I am excited to live. It tastes good.